26

KARISSA

Karissa and Marcello sat with their attorney in the Stormglove office conference room. Tony Davenport, an African American man in his fifties, listened to the journey they had undertaken thus far in attempting to bring Blair Kendrick’s story to the screen. They outlined the alleged efforts by Ultimate Pictures to stop them, including being dropped from the festival, the threats from studio fixer Barry Doon, and the hacking and financial crimes against them.

“But you don’t know for certain that it’s Justin Hirsch who’s behind it all,” he said.

“Well, no,” Karissa answered, “but, come on. Barry Doon works for Hirsch. That’s a fact.”

Davenport gave her a nod. “I’m willing to accept that. Before I tell you my thoughts, please explain why you think making a movie about this white woman from the forties is so important to you.”

Marcello looked at Karissa and tilted his head, as if to say, The ball’s in your court.

“Tony, as you know, I’m renting a house in West Adams Heights, the old area they called Sugar Hill.” Davenport nodded again. “The home belonged to Blair Kendrick. I’ve provided you copies of the lease and other documents about the owners, a company called Azules Oscuros S.A. It would be helpful to know who they are and where they’re located. My landlord, James Trundy, either doesn’t know anything or he’s not talking.”

“Spanish?” Davenport asked. “Azules Oscuros S.A.?”

“Yes.”

“I speak Spanish. It means ‘dark blues,’ and the S.A. part stands for Sociedad Anonima, or an ‘anonymous partnership.’”

“Dark blue, as in the color?”

“Literally, yes, only plural. Like a bunch of dark blues.”

Karissa looked at Marcello, and he shrugged. “Not sure that makes much sense,” she said. “Anyway, the more Marcello and I have uncovered about this woman’s story, the more I see parallels with the racism and sexism in Hollywood today.”

“So?” Davenport asked. “That doesn’t answer my question.”

“I see Blair as an antihero. She’s played femmes fatales, which are typically ‘bad girl’ characters, but look at the position she was in. She was in love with a black man, had a relationship with him that was public, and maybe they had a baby together. He disappears, is maybe murdered. Eldon Hirsch is killed, and allegedly Blair was there when it happened. She ends up burned to death up in the hills on Mulholland Drive. Throw in the mystery of the rare coins that supposedly belonged to Hirsch and the involvement of the mob, and it gets more complicated. If these are facts, then the movie could be a powerful statement. Even if what I just described isn’t the truth, the story has drama and mystery. It’s a modern film noir. It could be a fascinating crime drama.”

“But who’s the hero? If Blair dies, who saves the day in the end?”

Karissa held out her hands. “I don’t know yet!”

Davenport looked at Marcello. “You agree this is a viable project?”

Marcello grudgingly nodded. “At first, I was skeptical, but I’ve come around. I’m more concerned about why we’re being targeted, and whether you can do something about it. Can you, I don’t know, send a ‘cease and desist’ letter to Justin Hirsch and his bulldog? We’re not trampling on anyone’s rights here. This pattern of intimidation needs to stop.”

Karissa added, “I want to hire a screenwriter and get started on this. But if Ultimate Pictures continues to harass us, that’s going to be difficult. I’ve already started a rough draft, just something that defines the structure of the thing. But I still think we need a top-notch screenwriter.”

Davenport leaned back in his chair. “Well, I hate to break this to you, but I’ve learned that Ultimate Pictures is developing their own story about Blair Kendrick and Eldon Hirsch.”

Karissa and Blair simultaneously reacted. “What?”

“They’ve registered a treatment with the Writers Guild. I have a copy of the registration here.” He handed them each a sheet of paper from his briefcase.

The producers scanned the one-page document. “Oh, for crying out loud,” Marcello said. “This is practically a recap of a Wikipedia article. It’s just a synopsis of what we all already know about the murders.”

“Exactly. They may not even be making a movie about it at all. It’s possible they’re just trying to prevent you from ‘copying’ their so-called treatment.”

“This is bullshit,” Karissa said.

They heard the jingling bell of the front door opening. Marcello stuck his head out of the conference room door. “Oh, hey, Butch. Come on in.”

The leader of the Butch Johnson Hive entered the room with a cardboard box in his hands. “Hey, man. Hey, Karissa.”

Karissa introduced him to Davenport, and the men shook hands. “You brought Ray’s stuff?” she asked Butch as he set the box on the table.

“Yeah, this is what I told you Ray asked me to hold on to for him,” Butch said. “I don’t think there’s much here of interest. Some old photos and some sheet music.”

“Let me see!” Karissa pulled the box to her.

Davenport stood and started packing up his notepad and pen. “I think I better get back to my office. I’ll draft a letter to Ultimate Pictures and let you see it. I wouldn’t worry too much about the Writers Guild thing. We can get around that.”

“There is one thing we could do, you know,” Marcello said.

“What’s that?”

“Go public. Put it on our Facebook page. Tweet it. Tell the world we’re being harassed. Get this Barry Doon character on video the next time we see him.”

Karissa looked up. “Really?”

“That could backfire,” Davenport warned. “The Hollywood community could very well ostracize you for attacking a studio. We can’t prove the attacks on you are from them since it’s just speculation; whereas if you do it to Justin Hirsch in public then there’s no question that you’re attacking him.”

Marcello frowned. “Yeah, you’re right.”

Davenport smiled and shook everyone’s hands. “Try not to stress. We’ll get through this. Let me know if anything else happens. In the meantime, I’ll get to work and try to find out if there really is a ‘contract’ out on you. Nice to meet you, Butch.”

When Davenport was gone, Karissa started going through the box. As Butch had said, there were newspaper clippings, old photographs, and some sheets of staff paper on which music notes were written. Some of the photos were duplicates of ones she had seen in Blair’s collection.

The most recent clipping was dated February 1949. It was an ad for the Downbeat Club from the California Eagle. Appearing on a Friday night—Hank Marley and His Band.

“This must have been right before he disappeared,” Karissa said, showing the others. She looked at Butch. “I understand you know Ray’s son, Gregory?”

“Only by sight. He was at the funeral, you know.”

“Right, and we tried to talk to him. He acted very strange.”

“He’s a strange dude,” Butch said. “As long as I knew Ray, Gregory never lived in LA.”

“Where does he live?” Marcello asked.

“I don’t know. Somewhere north of LA, I think. I told Marcello I used to have a phone number for him, but it’s out of service.”

“Does he have anything to do with nuts? Farming nuts, that is,” Karissa prodded.

Butch frowned. “Something like that. He owns an orchard or farm or something.” He held out his hands. “Sorry, I don’t know much. Ray and I were friends, but he never talked much about his family. I don’t think I ever had a conversation with Gregory. I shook his hand and gave him my condolences at the funeral. I’m not sure he knew who I was.”

“Very strange,” Karissa muttered. She continued to look through the photos in the box. “Seen that one. Got that one. Oh, that’s a nice one. Seen that one.” She stopped and stared at one picture in her hand. “Hey. Marcello, look at this.”

It was a worn, black-and-white snapshot of a young black woman in front of a small ranch house. She wore a simple dress and her textured hair was straightened, as was the style for African Americans in the thirties and forties.

He studied the picture. “Yeah? Who is she?”

“Doesn’t she look familiar?”

His eyes widened. “The pianist at the funeral! With the white hair! Only young!”

“That’s her. I’m sure of it. She spoke to his son and daughter-in-law at the funeral. Ray Webster certainly knew her when he was alive. And you know something else?”

“What?”

“I swear I’ve seen that house before. It’s in my neighborhood, Marcello.”

“Your neighborhood has big houses. This isn’t a big house.”

“No, there are small houses, too.” She slapped her hand on the table. “Damn, I know I’ve seen it before.” She pointed to the visible edge of the structure next to it in the photo. “This here is a big mansion next door to it. On the other side is another big place. But this one, it’s a teeny little old house stuck in-between the two big ones. It’s cute, but it looks like it’s out of place when you see it. I remember driving by and noticing it. I thought to myself, Who lives in there? A hobbit? It stood out because it’s so small. Damn, where did I see it?”

Marcello said, “Knowing you, Karissa, you’ll think of it in the middle of doing something else. But you can’t believe that woman still lives in that same house now?”

“Why not? You saw her at the funeral. She has to live somewhere. It’s possible.”

Marcello handed the photo back to her. “I guess we better find it, then.”